


Dany and Jorah's Gift of the Magi

by clarasimone



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Eve, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Inspired by The Gift of the Magi - O. Henry, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Sentimental, Sexy Times, Some Humor, Some angst, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarasimone/pseuds/clarasimone
Summary: New York City 1905.It is Christmas Eve and Daenerys only has 1.87$ with which to buy Jorah a Christmas gift. Desperate times call for desperate measures but will her loving modern Knight appreciate the gesture ?
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 27
Kudos: 28
Collections: A song of frosted bear kisses and dragon roasted chestnuts





	Dany and Jorah's Gift of the Magi

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Gift of the Magi](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/537136) by O'Henry. 



> This Christmas tale is meant as a postmodern homage to O'Henry's famous "Gift of the Magi," my favorite sentimental holiday story after Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" and Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life". If you don't know "The Gift of the Magi", I believe you're in for a treat. 
> 
> This short story now being in the public domain, I've taken the liberty to intertwine O'Henry words with mine, doubling the length of the original tale to fit my Jorleesi bonbon but keeping the turn of the century lingo when possible. I hope the author smiles on me... even with my feminist and sexy additions :-)
> 
> Thank you to my very own winter fairies: @chryssadirewolf for the beautiful artwork and @houseofthebear for the stardust magic. And let's not forget @ser-jorah-the-andal for having thought up this collection ! Let the December lovefest begin !!
> 
> Above, and in the end notes, you'll find a link to the original tale and links to filmed versions...

**DANY AND JORAH'S GIFT OF THE MAGI**

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by regally bargaining with the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. This had to be done in the sweltering heat of summer, under the golden canopy of autumn and now through the blizzards that left the city in a wonderland of crystallized snow, but froze her feet something awful.

Diplomatically engaging the landlord and merchants in parley made up Daenerys’ daily life, until her cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. But at least her pride was left unscathed because no one ever denied her. Including the coalman, Jon. But maybe he didn’t count because he was probably sweet on her; he’d always give her more of the black fuel than what she could pay for. So, three times Dany counted her fortune. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

What good was it to be Daenerys of the (late) House Targaryen, descendant of the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, -- yes, her ancestor’s titles, and hers, were a mile long --Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, if all she had to spend for her first Christmas in New York City, was a meager dollar and eighty-seven cents? So, Daenerys did it. Cursed out loud when she got home, for minutes on end, clearly proving she still had fire in her blood even if she was a destitute aristocrat stranded in a strange land at the dawn of a new century.

_While the mistress of the home is venting out to imaginary red priestesses and spiders, shall we take a look at her tenement apartment? A furnished flat at $8 per week. It was not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad._

Yet, Daenerys deployed much ingenuity at making the best of what she had. When she wasn’t running the secret meetings of the Lower Eastside League of Suffragettes, she endeavored herself to infuse warmth and beauty, in the tiny nest she called home, with secondhand fabrics and knick-knacks she would playfully get the ragman on Delancey Street to part with. She even managed to decorate the poor Christmas tree nobody wanted, hiding how scrawny it was with cut-out pieces of tin, shaped like dragons and shooting stars, and so it was shimmering now in the timid sunlight pouring in through the tall frosted windows. She was happy. No really, she was! But they were poor, there was no denying it. Yes, _they_. And the “they” was the reason for her happiness.

_In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.” The “of Bear Island” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was still the owner of a small fortune he had brought with him from the Old World. Now, making a meager $20 a week, as a civil servant, the title looked blurred, as though it was thinking seriously of opting out. But whenever Mr. Jorah Mormont of Bear Island came home and reached his flat above, he was called “my bear” and greatly hugged by Mrs. Jorah Mormont, already introduced to you as Daenerys. Which is all very good._

Daenerys finished her imperious fit and attended to her cheeks with a powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard spotted with grey ice and snow. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy her Knight a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Even if Dr. Tarly always refused to be paid when she’d asked him for a wee bit of tincture to nurse her husband’s wounds. Jorah was always getting himself in scrappy situations, on account of his work. The details of which he usually wanted to keep for himself “to not worry her beautiful violet eyes.” He could be as stubborn as she! Daenerys sighed…Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jorah. Her bear. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.

_There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Daenerys, being slender, had mastered the art._

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the Jorah Mormont’s of Bear Island in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jorah's Valyrian steel sword that had been his father's and his grandfather's and his grandfather’s grandfather before him. The other was Daenerys’ silver hair. Had Cersei the long-gone Queen of Westeros lived in the flat across the airshaft, Daenerys would have let her hair hang out the window someday to dry, just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the King of Qarth, been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jorah would have polished his sword every time he passed, just to see him drool with envy…Well no, Jorah would never have conducted himself in this manner, he had a dislike of brazen demonstrations, but Daenerys could very well conjure up the image if she pleased!

So now Daenerys' beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of silver waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her, covering her modesty and always proving itself to be a temptation for her Knight. She smiled at the thought, biting her lip at the sweet recollection. How Jorah would watch her silently as she sat at her simple vanity, brushing her hair until it shined in the moonlight. Their eyes would meet in the mirror and the love and desire she’d see in his would make her blush. More so still when he’d slowly walk to her, to take the brush from her hands, and attend to the ritual himself. Outside, in the city, he might have been a formidable constable, stopping thieves and miscreants, but inside their private lair, he was the most attentive of lover. How he relished taking out the pins himself, to feel her silky tresses fall through his long fingers. He’d bury his face in her hair and swoop down the side of her neck to kiss the wisps at the nape, making her sigh…

Still standing in front of the pier-glass, Daenerys had to close her eyes, the memory too sweet: Jorah undoing the satin ribbon of her nightgown to let the garment pool at her feet, and his hands gathering the wealth of her hair to adorn her skin, all the better for him to find her again, under its silky length, after gently laying her down unto their bed…He’d whisper her name then, his voice deep and velvety, hiding neither his emotion nor his arousal. His fingers would brush aside the silver of her mane, to come worship the pink buds it was veiling, the gruff of his beard a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips on her tender skin.

Shivering deliciously, Daenerys snapped out of her trance, to quickly and nervously do up her hair again. She faltered for a second, as she glanced one last time at herself. A tear threatened to splash on the worn red carpet, but her mind was made up.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her violet eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped, on High Sparrow street, the sign read: “Mme Septa Unella. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Daenerys ran, ringing the strange brass bell, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, her expression as chilly as a cold-hearted prison warden, hardly looked as soft as the sound of her name.

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Daenerys.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the silver cascade. “Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.

“You’re worse than a slaver and my ancestor would have burned you,” thought Daenerys. But she did take the money, even thanked Madame, and off she went, hiding her short locks under her hat.

_Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jorah's present._

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jorah and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the antique stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a peacock feather decorated scabbard, exotic in design, properly proclaiming its value by its craftsmanship and the care with which it had preserved over the years—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Sword. As soon as she saw it, she knew that it must be Jorah's. It was like him. Sturdy and handsome —the description applied to both, and with blue ocelli the same shade as Jorah’s eyes. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With his sword sheathed in that antique scabbard, Jorah might feel less anxious about hanging his heirloom over their mantlepiece; and feel pride in his origins, though Bear Island had long been taken from his family, during the terrible days of Scotland’s clearances. Daenerys wanted to honor her husband with her gift. After all, he was working for the Pinkerton agency and she saw him as a true Knight, like his ancestor Jorah the Andal had been. How she loved to see him come home after a long day of fighting crime, in a flurry of snowflakes, unfurling his Sherlock Holmes tweed jacket and short cape like some hero returning from battle to warm himself on the skin of his lover’s embrace; hers!

OK, so maybe she should stop reading penny dreadful serials in the newspaper…But the fish came wrapped in them!

Certainly, Dany’s suffragette friends scolded her for her romantic views, but she was adamant. Why couldn’t women be modern _and_ romantic? If they, the liberated Suffragettes believed no man or state should be allowed to tell them what to think, shouldn’t they, themselves, grant each other the freedom to act and love any which way they very well _damn_ please? Her impassionate retorts, and sometimes usage of gutter vocabulary, usually garnered her a round of applause. It was no surprise they had chosen Daenerys to be their leader and spokeswoman.

At home, Daenerys’s views were often debated too. The sparring usually ran something like this:

“And why couldn’t a woman be president one day?”

“Oh! I think women should rule the world, luv.”

Clearly, Daenerys thought Jorah was making fun of her and she’d throw him a murderous glance. Undeterred, Jorah would always be quick to hide the laughter in his eyes and try to persuade her of his good faith. Because he was indeed serious! It’s just that she was so darn adorable when she let out the dragon in her.

“Khaleesi, you know I speak the truth. Come…”

And he’d pull on Daenerys’ dainty arm and sit her on his lap, and he’d cajole her until she’d relinquish, sighing. Only after she’d smile again would he become strangely serious, declaring his love and devotion all anew: “Daenerys, were you to become the Queen of Sheba or even a tyrant, I would follow you and do your bidding, and serve and protect you until the day I die, you know this very well.”

She’d almost pout then: “But I wouldn’t become a tyrant.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Jorah would take her chin in his hand and look tenderly in her eyes before whispering: “You have a much too gentle heart for that.” A kiss would usually follow, and then his smile would become more mischievous again: “Though you hide it well when I have to go fetch you and your lady friends at the station. What was it last week? Disorderly conduct during the Thanksgiving parade!”

“Ah! The gall! It was a proper and peaceful demonstration, one street over!”

 _Right_ , said Jorah’s expression, cocking his head and looking at her knowingly.

“What?” she’d asked, almost snapping at him.

“You used corsets tinted red as revolutionary flags.”

“Oh! That? Well...” And then, sighing, a bit irked: “True.”

But Daenerys was never defeated for very long. She’d add something smart, smiling: “Weren’t we a sight, though?”

“That, you were, _yes_!” Jorah would exclaim, laughing…and then, lovingly: “You’ll do it you know. Get the politicians to give you the right to vote.”

“One day?”

“No, sooner than that.” Jorah would seal his assurance with a kiss, and then, remembering: “Oh! Luv, I did manage to save one of them.”

“One of them, what?…A red corset? Why?”

Jorah only smiled, arching an eyebrow.

“Jo-rah!”

And so usually, these scenes would end with Daenerys letting herself be ravished as she knew the power she held over the dominion that was her Knight’s heart and body.

When Daenerys reached home from her fateful visit to Madame Unella, her intoxicating shopping spree gave way a little to prudence and reason. She stood in front of the mirror. Her cheeks were red from frostbite, her nose runny and her head…Gods, her head! A wave of panic swelled in her, seeing truly how Madame had shorn her beautiful silver mane. But she bravely silenced it and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love.

_Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task._

Twenty minutes later, nothing doing: her head was still a short whirlwind of wispy flying silver flames of hair that gave her the appearance of a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long and carefully.

And then her shoulders slumped.

“Jorah will hate it,” she told herself, almost comically, before an even worse thought hit her: _Oh Gods, he’ll scowl at me!_

Jorah’s scowls were legendary, and Daenerys was pretty sure she had never been at the receiving end of one. No, in fact, she was sure she hadn’t. So, she had to close her eyes, that earlier wave of panic threatening a comeback. And looking at herself again:

“Seven hells, I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. What have I done?”

_But what else could she have done — what could she do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?_

Daenerys threw herself one last look and, strengthening her back, went about preparing the modest feast with which she meant to greet her hungry bear. _Jorah loves me, it’ll be fine._ She made sure she had everything, and she dived into the recipe.

If truth be told, Jorah was the better cook of the two, but Daenerys poured all her heart into the making of this modest feast. She mashed the potatoes and turned the cranberries into a joyous ruby compote. The plum pudding was the most minuscule she had ever seen, true. And did the pigeon look like a turkey? _No!_ But it smelled wonderful, thanks to the exotic spices gifted by Miss Missandei, who lived on the floor below them with her lovely, _hum_ , consort. The red and ochre kernels came from her native island of Naath and they smelled of sunshine and hot peppers, reminding Daenerys of legendary dragon fire. That pleased her very much. Oh! And the gravy was laced with the wine which Mr. Tyrion Lannister, the spirits merchant, had saved all year for her. Or so he told her.

“But…I’ve not been in New York City the whole of a full year yet!”

“Indeed, my lady,” He always used such flowery language. “But Bacchus himself foresaw your arrival and whispered it in my ear.”

Possibly Mr. Tyrion breathed too much of his own alembic to be trusted with upholding such notions as accuracy, but he meant well. And all she had to give him in return for the gold-colored wine was a chaperoned afternoon with Shae, one of her Suffragettes ladies who was as sweet on Tyrion, as he was on her. They made a striking pair, enlivening the streets of bohemian Greenwich Village where Tyrion had taken them. Dany smiled as she watched her companions distance her in a flurry of snow, her chaperon days pretty much over as soon as they had begun. Losing them in the whirlwind, she had simply hurried home with her bottle of wine, not forgetting to order a fat pigeon for the following day from the game merchant.

At seven o'clock, everything was ready.

Jorah was never late. Daenerys hid the peacock scabbard in the fold of their sofa and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. _He loves me, everything will be fine._ And yet, she dimmed the lamps and blew out some of the candles so she could wait hidden in the shadows. Then she heard Jorah’s step on the stairway, down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Gods, old and new, please make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jorah stepped in. He looked a bit gaunt under the golden gruff of his chiseled face. Poor fellow, he was forty-two—and still struggling proudly to procure for his young wife! His beautiful golden tweed overcoat had been many times repaired and he was without gloves. But his voice was joyful when he called for her before turning a bit quizzical when noticing the semi-darkness of their flat. He hid his concern well though, exclaiming instead at how romantic the soft lighting was and beautiful the tree, which still managed to shimmer. It was only Daenerys, really, who sat shrouded in darkness.

“Luv?”

Daenerys stood up then, smoothing her crimson velvet skirt, and she walked slowly towards Jorah, like an apparition, her back lit by the glow of the fireplace. She was sure her tall handsome bear would hear her heart beating wildly when, finally, she stepped fully into the pool of light illuminating him, her face upturned to his, and her lips quivering with emotion.

Jorah stood there, as immovable as an unsullied sentry at the coming of wights. His eyes were fixed upon Daenerys, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

“My bear,” she whispered, “say something.” Her hand went to smooth the hair at the back of her head, in a nervous gesture. “I…I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. I just had to do it. Wish me ‘Merry Christmas!’ my love, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice—what a beautiful gift I've got for you.”

“You've cut off your hair?” asked Jorah, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Daenerys, wondering what Jorah’s beautiful, soulful eyes were telling her. “I'm still me without my hair, am I not?”

Jorah looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” his air one of absolute incomprehension.

“You needn't look for it,” said Daenerys, laughing shortly. “It's sold, my love —sold and gone, too.”

Tenderly, tentatively, she reached for his cold hands, warming them in hers. Her voice was barely above a whisper and full of love when she lifted herself on tiptoe to reach his level: “It's Christmas Eve, Jorah. Rejoice with me, my bear, for it went for you.”

One of her hands reached for his cheek as she clung to his tall frame. “Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you.”

Looking into his wife’s loving violet eyes, Jorah finally woke out of his trance. He enfolded her and lifted her to him.

_For ten seconds, or a minute or two, let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Unless you wish to regal yourselves with the sight of a bear’s embrace, and the kiss of a man who wishes for his Queen to know she could do no wrong._

“I love it, my sweet, my Khaleesi,” Jorah sighed and smiled looking about Dany’s soft wispy hair, one of his hands gently caressing it. “You look like a faerie, a little winter pixie. A very naughty one at that.”

Daenerys cried out, pretending to be shocked, but welcomed being silenced by another kiss, imprisoned in her bear’s arms.

_Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on._

“Oh Jorah!” Daenerys was so relieved; her heart sang as she freed herself from her Knight’s embrace to take his hand. She started pulling him towards their sofa, where she hid her gift to him, but he stopped her, drawing a package from his overcoat pocket and gently putting it inside her hands.

“Daenerys,” he said, “I know I looked like an unfeeling fool when I came in. But if you'll unwrap this package maybe you’ll understand why.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic in-take of breath was followed by, alas! a quick feminine change to sadness…Soft tears pearled in Daenerys’ eyes, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers her Knight knew how to bestow.

For there, lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Daenerys had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoiseshell, with jeweled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. She had simply admired their beauty like one does a sunset. And now, they were hers, Jorah spending a fortune on them, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

She hugged the treasure to her bosom, and at length, she was able to look up again at her bear to say, with a timid smile: “My hair grows so fast, Jorah!”

Seeing Daenerys like this, hearing her, so fragile and contrite, Jorah felt his heart actually ache. Swallowing hard, he bent to her, cupping her cheek in one of his hands while she closed her eyes, surrendering to the caress. Looking at her luminous features, Jorah whispered then fervently: “Khaleesi, you are just as beautiful now as ever. You needn’t mourn nor wish yourself any different. You are my Queen…” He kissed her then, harvesting Dany’s sighs of relief and contentment until she leaped up and cried, “Oh!”

Jorah had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palms. The beautiful feather-adorned scabbard seemed to shimmer with the reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn't it beautiful, Jorah? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at your ancestor’s sword a hundred times a day now. Fetch it, my love. I want to see it sheathed in its new glove and hung properly.”

Instead of obeying, Jorah simply looked with infinite love into Daenerys’ eyes and then with reverence at the scabbard before setting it down. He turned then and came to take Daenerys’ hand, to kiss it tenderly like a gentleman would his Lady.

“Dany,” said he, “let's put our Christmas presents away and keep them a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I can smell the feast you prepared for us. Are you not hungry?” 

Something was afoot and Daenerys started to feel the room spin round her. Looking lost and unsure, she pleaded Jorah with her eyes. He winced before smiling softly while pulling her to him, his voice a velvety whisper.

“Luv, I sold the sword to get the money to buy your combs.”

Daenerys gasped softly then, fully grasping the sacrifices they both made for love, and her hand left her mouth for Jorah’s cheek. Tears welled up once more in her eyes, but her bear didn’t let her shed them. One of his hand claimed her gracile neck and he pulled her up to his mouth for the longest kiss two lovers ever shared, forgetting time and where they were.

So much so that the bear later could not remember how it was that he found himself half-naked, with his own natural fur on display; that is, the sole adornment needed to warm the love of his life come to push him on their sofa! His memory of their delayed dinner really just began with his little dragon’s hastily parted blouse, for it revealed her nascent bosom peeking from the crimson corset he had so providentially salvaged.

How beautiful and coquettish the smile and sultry look Dany had then bestowed on her handsome husband when she straddled him there, surprising him with her audacity. Being an enraptured bear, of course, meant that Jorah was quick to rise to the occasion and, thankfully for their neighbors, a gust of wind came to swallow his feral growl when his maiden fair (let’s whisper this): _claimed him right there and then from underneath her skirt!_ If this was to be how a modern woman with boyish pixie hair liked to take and give of her love and pleasure, this Knight was not going to protest. Especially not when riding him into the New World, like the Faerie Queen she was always meant to be, Dany also took her sweet time shedding herself of the upper garments hiding, to his eyes and touch, the alabaster beauty she meant for him. And only him. The contrast was too delicious.

When the last of Daenerys’ sheer camisoles went floating easily over her lovely short locks, Jorah pulled her to him, to slow his paramour’s rhythms. With much _gourmandise_ , he prolonged their dalliance, whispering feverish words of adoration on her skin and lips until, locking eyes with her Knight, Dany brought his fingers to caress the secret delicacy he usually first feasted on. There, she begged him, please, to say the words she so relished for sweet release upon his ardor; to which Jorah complied, with much fervor, and a breathy “Khaleesi.” Another gust of wind rattled the frosted windows, this time to swallow Daenerys’ whimpers of pleasure and Jorah’s accompanying moan. But nothing silenced the love eternal searing their hearts and bodies on this, the first of many magical Christmas Eves they were to share in their new life. A life full of adventures, wonderment…and, yes, saving pennies. At least, dear friends, for a little while longer.

_The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere, they are wisest. They are the magi._

******************

**ILLUSTRATED END NOTES**

In the original tale, the lovers are called James (Jim) and Della. Isn't this wonderful ? So close to Jorah and Dany :-) even if James has a watch and not a sword, and Della buys him a fob chain and not a scabbard ! But in both versions, the heroine sacrifices her hair.

The first time I was exposed to this beautiful Christmas Tale was on NBC, in 1979: they aired a musical version shot for television starring Debby Boone and shot in cardboard sets but it felt like magic to me.

This musical version really moved me to tears and I was a bit shocked to discover that the original tale had humour ! Regardless of the tonality of the original and the many interpretations that followed, the dual sacrifice of the lovers always remains untouched, and makes for a great narrative twist... It just gets to me. As does the romanticism of NYC at the dawn of the 20th century. The struggling heroes, the fragile beauty in simple things, transcending poverty, the confluence of past and present, out of Victorianism and into the modernity of the 20th century. I hope I captured this by offering two very different love scenes, the first with a more passive Daenerys, weighted down by her beautiful mane, and loved by her Knight in prince charming mode; the second offering a more daring Dany, surely freed by her more modern locks ;-) I added a sense of community too, by casting other GoT characters to built up Dany's world, including Septa Unella (never thought I'd write HER into a story !). I also envisioned a more fiery heroine than in the original tale though Dany remains somewhat more innocent and girly than in GoT because I didn't wish for her to have gone through all the ordeals her ancestor, the original Dany, went through. I thought my Dany should still act like a very young woman of her times, but with feminist spunk, ergo making her a Suffragette !

But enough of my attempts at witty contemporary revisitations...

In closing, I felt like showing you some illustrations and pics of the many interpretations of the tale across time:

. . . 

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the link to the original story by O'Henry: http://riowang.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-gift-of-magi.html
> 
> And links to a few filmed adaptations... there are many out there, this my curated list:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEYKlV0vkIs  
> This is my favorite version now. It has a nice Frank Capra feel to it. I've just discovered it; we had the same idea with the lighting when Jim/Jorah comes home ;-)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2VFgHGKzx4  
> Sesame Street's version ! LOL Bert and Ernie, our favorite gay muppet couple :-)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EByyzj-BmU  
> A student film from Uzbekistan ! A very sweet silent version scored with John Williams's theme from Schindler's List
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5ZX2E2k56k  
> A beautiful animated version 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Izw3cC7WF3U  
> Read by Kathleen T. Pelley with a Scottish brogue :-) ; visuals from the illustrations by P.J. Lynch
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UM5cKJHUhs  
> The opera ! (audio only)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpAJb6NlqYw  
> Joni Mitchell's 1967 tribute song to the story, broadcasted by the CBC


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